Towers of Midnight (The Wheel of Time #13)

“The Empress wishes to know,” Selucia Voiced, reading Fortuona’s fingers, “if any of the captured marath’damane spoke of the weapon.”

“Tell the highest Empress—may she live forever—that they did not,” Melitene said, sounding worried. “And, if I may be so bold, I believe that they are not lying. It seems that the explosion outside the city was an isolated accident—the result of some unknown ter’angreal, used imprudently. Perhaps there is no weapon.”

It was possible. Fortuona had already begun to doubt the validity of those rumors. The explosion had happened before Fortuona had arrived in Ebou Dar, and the details were confusing. Perhaps this had all been a ploy by Suroth or her enemies.

“Captain-General,” Selucia Voiced. “The Greatest One wishes to know what you would do with a Power such as this Traveling ability.”

“That depends,” Galgan said, rubbing his chin. “What is its range? How large can she make it? Can all damane do this? Are there limitations on where a hole can be opened? If it pleases the Greatest One, I will speak with the damane and get these answers.”

“It does please the Empress,” Selucia Voiced.

“This is troubling,” Beslan said. “They could attack behind our battle lines. They could open a portal like this into the Empress’s own chambers, may she live forever. With this…everything we know about war will change.”

The members of the Deathwatch Guard shuffled—a sign of great discomfort. Only Furyk Karede did not move. If anything, his expression grew harder. Fortuona knew that he would soon be suggesting a new, rotating location of her sleeping quarters.

Fortuona thought for a moment, staring at that rent in the air. That rent in reality itself. Then, contrary to tradition, she stood up on her dais. Fortunately, Beslan was there, one she could address directly—and let the others hear her commands.

“Reports say,” Fortuona announced, “that there are still hundreds of marath’damane in the place called the White Tower. They are the key to recapturing Seanchan, the key to holding this land, and the key to preparing for the Last Battle. The Dragon Reborn will serve the Crystal Throne.

“We have been provided with a way to strike. Let it be said to the Captain-General that he should gather his finest soldiers. I want each and every damane we control to be brought back to the city. We will train them in this method of Traveling. And then we will go, in force, to the White Tower. Before, we struck them with a pinprick. Now, we will let them know the full weight of our sword. All of the marath’damane must be leashed.”

She sat back down, letting the room fall still. It was rare that the Empress made such announcements personally. But this was a time for boldness.

“You should not allow word of this to spread,” Selucia said to her, voice firm. She was now speaking in her role as Truthspeaker. Yes, another would have to be chosen to be Fortuona’s Voice. “You would be a fool to let the enemy know for certain we have this Traveling.”

Fortuona took a deep breath. Yes, that was true. She would make certain each in this room was held to secrecy. But once the White Tower was captured, they would talk of her proclamation, and would read the omens of her victory upon the skies and world around them.

We will need to strike soon, Selucia signed.

Yes, Fortuona signed back. Our previous attack will have them gathering arms.

Our next move will have to be decisive, then, Selucia signed. But think. Delivering thousands of soldiers into the White Tower through a hidden basement room. Striking with the force of a thousand hammers against a thousand anvils!

Fortuona nodded.

The White Tower was doomed.

“Don’t know that there’s much more to say, Perrin,” Thom said, leaning back in his chair, tabac smoke curling out of his long-stemmed pipe. It was a warm night, and they didn’t have a fire in the hearth. Just a few candles on the table, with some bread, cheeses and a pitcher of ale.

Perrin puffed on his own pipe. Only he, Thom and Mat were in the room. Gaul and Grady waited out in the common room. Mat had cursed Perrin for bringing those two—an Aiel and an Asha’man were rather conspicuous. But Perrin felt safer with those two than with an entire company of soldiers.

He’d shared his story with Mat and Thom first, speaking of Malden, the Prophet, Alliandre, and Galad. Then they had filled him in on their experiences. It stunned Perrin, how much had happened to the three of them since their parting.

“Empress of the Seanchan, eh?” Perrin said, watching the smoke twist above him in the dim room.

“Daughter of the Nine Moons,” Mat said. “It’s different.”

“And you’re married.” Perrin grinned. “Matrim Cauthon. Married.”

“You didn’t have to share that part, you know,” Mat said to Thom.

“Oh, I assure you, I did indeed.”

“For a gleeman, you seem to leave out most of the heroic parts of the things I do,” Mat said. “At least you mentioned the hat.”

Perrin smiled, contented. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed sitting with friends to spend the evening chatting. A carved wooden sign hung outside the window, dripping with rainwater. It depicted faces wearing strange hats and exaggerated smiles. The Happy Throng. There was probably a story behind the name.

The three of them were in a private dining chamber, paid for by Mat. They’d brought in three of the inn’s large hearth chairs. They didn’t fit the table, but they were comfortable. Mat leaned back, putting his feet up on the table. He took up a hunk of ewe’s milk cheese and bit off a piece, then balanced the rest on his chair arm.

“You know, Mat,” Perrin said, “your wife is probably going to expect you to be taught table manners.”

“Oh, I’ve been taught,” Mat said. “I just never learned.”

“I’d like to meet her,” Perrin said.

“She’s something interesting,” Thom replied.

“Interesting,” Mat said. “Yeah.” He looked wistful. “Anyway, you’ve heard the lot of it now, Perrin. That bloody Brown brought us here. Haven’t seen her in over two weeks, now.”

“Can I see the note?” Perrin asked.

Mat patted a few pockets, then fished out a small white piece of paper, folded closed and sealed with red wax. He tossed it onto the table. The corners were bent, the paper smudged, but it hadn’t been opened. Matrim Cauthon was a man of his word, at least when you coul